


put your name on it

by ohtempora



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Facials, Gangbang, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Multi, Spanking, Spitroasting, Superstition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 14:49:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14334804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohtempora/pseuds/ohtempora
Summary: "April's always been like this for us," Kenley Jansen said.Then he corrected himself."Not like this."





	put your name on it

**Author's Note:**

> i have zero excuses for this-- zero--also handwaving the need for condoms. it's a fic about gangbangs that hinges on dubious unlikely sex magic, so. title is from rihanna. summary is a post-game quote. ANYWAY.

Cody can't stop swinging at air.  
  
He dreamt about it over the winter. Bat connecting with nothing, each missed pitch low and inside. He didn't get them in the World Series and he didn't get them when he replayed it after the fact and he isn't getting them now.  
  
It should be a new season, a new start. Except they drop two to the Giants in quick succession, play over two games worth of scoreless innings, and then they lose to the Diamondbacks in a series of embarrassing meltdowns. All of the sudden they're 2-5 and it feels like he's forgotten how to hit. It’s a World Series hangover, except last fall they lost.

On one hand, it’s seven games. On the other, the pressure to win weighs on everyone, more and more each season as the stars on the roster gets another year older. Cody’s not a rookie anymore, but only barely, and he knows what they’re facing down, knows why they do this.

They lose in extra innings in San Francisco and they're 2-6. The attitude in the locker room is morose as it’s ever been, so much heavier than the spring weather should allow. No one wants to go out and face the media, no one has a solution to speak of beyond the standard cliches. They need to play better. They need to make contact. They need run support. They need—

Desperate times, desperate measures, even eight games in.

“Sex magic,” Chase's voice is flat. “You really think so.”

“I got a buddy in the Mets’ system,” Alex says. Kiké is nodding along with him, which might make it worse. No one wants to hear what the Astros may or may not have been doing back when they were digging their way up from the bottom of the league. “What do you think happened in ‘86, huh?”

Chase says, “Cocaine.”

“Well, yeah, but that’s not everything.” Alex shrugs. “Blow only gets you so far. Team bonding and shit gets you farther.”

It looks like Chase is planning to argue, but out of nowhere Kersh says, “I want the division again,” his quiet voice cutting through the room. “I want the pennant. If this breaks the skid, then we should have tried it last year when we lost 16 of 17.”

There's not much of argument to make. Practically all of them were on the field and in the dugout when they lost last fall. Everyone wants to play October baseball and they're already watching the division slip away.

"Can't fuck in the Giants' stadium." Alex makes a face. "It’s not happening in the visitors’ clubhouse. Fucking at their stadium feels like bad luck. You can’t mix sex magic up with bad luck." 

It might be superstition, but he has a point.

“Clayton’s got a suite.” Kenley brushes off the look Kersh sends his way. “You do, don’t play.”

“Fine,” Kersh says. “We'll use it. Might as well use it for something, no one's gonna be throwing a party here after the way we’ve been playing.”

“Doesn't this count as a—”

“No.” Kersh crosses his arms.

“Whatever,” Alex says. “Semantics. I don’t care. You wanna tell the rest of the bullpen, or should I? We have a game tomorrow.”

“I’ll round up the position players.” Cody almost forgot Chris was there, but he is. He scrubs a hand over his beard. “Who’s the—you know. The, uh, focal point?”

“No pitchers,” Kenley says immediately. “Bullpen’s already tired.”

“I’m starting tomorrow,” Kersh says. “Fine by me not to use the pitching staff.”

Cody looks at Corey, who looks at Chase, whose mouth twists. He shakes his head. Something else passes between the two of them, and Corey doesn’t say anything.

“I feel like—” Chris steps forward. “You can tell me to shut up, but—if it has to mean something, to work. I dunno what the Mets did, or whoever—” he glances at Alex, who shrugs; apparently he only knows so much about that particular bit of baseball history—“but that sort of seems, you know, appropriate? Magic or superstition or what the fuck ever.”

“It does.” Kenley nods. “Alright. No starting pitchers, no one who was on the DL recently.” He ticks the points off on his fingers. “Tell me who's left.”

“The position players,” Alex says, which is easy for him to say. He's a starter. Cody lowkey thinks if you bring up a team gangbang you should put up or shut up, but what does he know.

“No catchers either,” Yasmani says. He gestures at his thighs. “Gotta play a full game, don't think that's good for the legs.”

Cody says, “Um.”

This is a stupid idea. He’s really, really certain it’s a stupid idea. But if it works—he hasn’t been much better or much worse than anyone on the roster. And yet.

“Bellinger?”

“I can,” Cody says. “I'll do it.” The false bravado in his voice must be tangible, but he holds on. “I swear I’m good for it.”

There’s murmuring, but no one protests.

“He won Rookie of the Year last year,” Chris says. “That means something.”

“Man, you think the kid got off light last year with hazing and now we do this.” Kenley laughs. "You sure?"

“I’m serious,” Cody says. “I wanna help. I want to win.” That’s the most important point, after all. He dreams about the World Series loss all the time. “Do we need to burn sage, or chant something? Like, magic shit?”

Alex says, “Do I look like I know Latin?”

“Maybe everyone can do their own thing,” Yasmani jumps in. “As soon as we get back to the hotel. Do your good luck superstition, whatever you need. Burn sage if you can find it. Then we meet up.”

"Fine,” Kersh says, a set to his mouth Cody's only ever seen on the mound. He remembers the pitching meeting being moved a couple weeks back and Kersh saying, _who am I gonna punch in the mouth,_ and shivers. “We’re fucking doing this. I don’t care about burning sage. We lose one more time in extra innings and I’m—I don’t even know. We’re not going to lose in extras anymore. And not to the goddamn Giants.” He says it like he can will it not to happen again, like he’ll will them to victory even when he isn't on the mound.

So that’s that, Cody thinks. Kersh speaking up erases any doubt. It’s happening.

They bus back to the team hotel. Overall there’s a collective weird mood, a combination of feeling depressed over the loss and anticipation to what they’re going to do to fix it. Kershaw sends a text to the team with his room number before they park. It sends heat through Cody's stomach looking at it, innocuous numbers on his phone screen. He doesn't know how this will go. He hopes he can help. He hopes it works.

When he's in his own room he flattens down his hair, changes into sweatpants and a t-shirt. Who knows how long he'll stay dressed, and there's no way anyone will care if his hair is sticking up funny, but—he does it anyway. Why not.

He paces around for a while, flips the TV off and on. Killing time. Finally his phone buzzes—it’s Alex’s number, not Kershaw, _omw over_ , and he stuffs his feet into his slides in the same order he puts on his cleats and walks down the hall.

Most of the team is there, scattered around the room. Not all the newer guys. But almost everyone. Cody smooths his hands over his thighs. There are a few six-packs of beer on the table in the corner, but no one seems to be drinking. Someone’s Spotify account is on shuffle in the background. It sounds like static to him, in one ear and out the other.

Cody swallows.

They’re already so tired of losing games. They’re better than this.

“I, uh,” Cody says. He looks down at his socked feet. “Should I—”

There’s some generalized shrugging, and a lot of looking around, until Kershaw says, “You can keep your clothes on right now.” Cody doesn’t know what he has planned, but it’s a relief. He won’t have to strip in front of everyone first thing, bare and exposed before the rest of them get down to his level.

Still, he’s not surprised that Kersh calls the shots, which means Kersh goes first. He's sitting in the big leather armchair up against the wall and he raises his hips, shoves his sweatpants down his thighs. "Alright," he says.  
  
Cody doesn't know if he should walk across the room or crawl.

Fuck it. He crawls.  
  
When he looks up Kersh is nodding approvingly. He's got a hand wrapped around himself and Cody waits until he gets the okay to lean in, mouth over Kersh’s dick. He sucks tentatively, then licks around the head, breathing carefully through his nose. He gets another second to acclimate before Kersh grabs his hair, fingertips slipping over the short bristles on the back of his head.

“Like that,” he says, and Cody sucks on his dick again, lacing his fingers behind his back. He doesn't think Kersh wants him to use his hands. They’ve already interrupted his pregame routine for this, they all know about his quirks, his control. He lets Kersh set the pace, tries to keep his jaw loose.

The last time he did this, it was fooling around with a buddy from home, a lot of messy head, spit and laughter and ordering pizza after they both got off. It shouldn't be different now, he's still sucking someone off, but it is. Kersh has a tight grip on his head, he's fucking Cody's mouth, hard and steady and all Cody has to do is take it. No one's laughing.

He closes his eyes. He can feel the guys watching him and it's better if he doesn't look. This way he can focus on the rhythm, Kersh’s dick pushing past his lips, the soft heavy sounds escaping both their mouths. His mouth is stretched at the edges and they've only just begun.

“Oh fuck,” Kersh says, like he’s surprised by it, and he jerks back. Cody blinks. There's a muscle jumping in Kersh’s thigh and precome pearling at the head of his dick. “Close your eyes.”

Cody does, and Kersh comes on his face seconds later, warm pulses striping his cheek and jaw. A murmur goes up around the room and he thinks, _that's how it's going to be then._

Kersh exhales.

Blinking up at him, Cody raises a hand to wipe off his face before he thinks better of it. They look at each other for a moment, and then Kersh says, "Someone open him up.” His voice sounds rough. "I don't care who."  
  
Cody waits for a response before he glances around the room. He's pretty sure there's jizz in his eyebrows. Some of the guys are looking away, but some of them are staring at him, eyes dark, mouths open. He wonders how many of them watched, what they thought, seeing Kersh's hand tight in his hair as he fucked Cody's mouth. They all heard the slick noises, the way they both moaned.  
  
Still, no one immediately volunteers, until Chase says, "Corey can do it."  
  
"Sure," Kersh says. "Why not." He pauses, then: "I'm going last, too."  
  
No one says anything to that, either, and why would they, Cody thinks. It’s Kersh’s suite. It’s always been Kershaw’s team. That’s the weight they’ve got, the immediacy of the pressure facing them, he's who they’re all trying to win it for.

Lube is produced out of someone's pocket, tossed over to Corey, who catches it with his usual grace.

“You gotta move in,” someone says—Cody doesn't see who—and he knee-walks more to the center of the room. Everyone can see him now. He can't duck away and hide.

He feels something in the room, doesn't know what it is beyond a shiver. He pulls off his sweats and discards them, then gets onto his hands and knees and listens for the approving sounds of the team.

Corey kneels next to him, placing one hand on the small of his back. "Hey," he says.  
  
"Hey back," Cody says, and Corey reaches to touch the side of his mouth, thumb smearing over a spot of come. Cody closes his eyes again and holds his breath until he hears the snap of a cap, feels Corey's fingers brush against the base of his spine and then lower.  
  
The lube is cold, and Corey is efficient about it, one finger and then two, stretching him open. It isn’t much, only an occasional spark of sensation when Corey brushes against the right spot, not enough to turn him on. Cody wonders where Corey learned to do this, then thinks about Chase volunteering him and wonders how much, exactly, he wants to know.  
  
"That's fine," someone says, and it's not, really, not quite enough, but Cody isn't going to say anything. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut and waits as Corey moves away, replaced by a different teammate. "We'll go slow," the same person continues. It's Rich, Cody realizes, and he nods. "Stay there," Rich says. He pushes two fingers into Cody, curls them up—Cody gasps, catching the ragged end of something good—and just as quick, they're gone, replaced by the slick blunt head of Rick's dick.  
  
He goes slow like he said he would, pressing and pressing and pressing, sure hands wrapped around Cody's hips.  
  
Cody’s body gives way, inescapable, until Rich is fully seated. He smacks Cody's ass once, sharp and hard. Cody wants to open his eyes and look around. He can't. He makes a soft needy noise instead.

“Alright,” Rich says, and he starts to move, long easy strokes. He's girthier than Cody would have expected, and he feels himself opening up around Rich’s dick. It burns, the stretch; doesn't mean Cody doesn't _like_ it. He doesn't know what's going to come after but if it's like this he'll be okay.

Rich has stamina—ordinarily Cody might make a joke about age here, if they were hanging around the clubhouse—and he's all steady thrusts and deep breaths. He isn't trying to get Cody off, no reach-around. Getting fucked is nice but it isn't enough. Cody tries to tilt his hips, but Rich doesn’t give into him, keeps moving how he wants. He groans when he comes, pushing in and staying there, hands tight around Cody’s hips.

“God," Rich says, and pats him on the ass. “Goddamn.” He pulls out and steps back. Cody looks around, tries to gauge everyone’s expressions. He can’t see anything bad, at least. A couple guys are shifting from side to side, and Alex has his hand pressed against his crotch.

Kenta walks over. He’s next, pushing right in. Cody’s breath catches. He's wet, from Rich’s come, between that and the lube Kenta slicked himself up with, it’s an easy slide. After Kenta, he’s only going to get wetter, sloppier. More marked.

“Alex,” Kersh says. He's still in the armchair, sweatpants pushed down. “Go help him out.”

Alex nods, unbuckling his belt as he goes. “Hey, Belli,” he says, and then without any more ceremony he pushes his dick past Cody's lips. Alex doesn't fuck his mouth like Kersh did, but that doesn't mean Cody has to do much. Kenta’s snapping his hips, and Cody's moving with him, bobbing up and down, palms and knees shoved into the rug. They're starting to sting.

“Oh, shit,” Alex says, his head falling back. He rubs his hand over Cody's head. He pulls back until just the head of his dick is on Cody's lips, and then he starts stroking himself, hand fast and tight until he's coming, mostly in Cody's mouth but around the edges of it, too. It makes his stomach twist, the casual way Alex does it, getting marked up with a teammate's come. He wishes he could touch himself but no one's given him permission and it wouldn't feel right not to wait.

He likes this. What a fucking realization.

“Making a mess,” Kenta says. He's losing rhythm, hips stuttering, until he moans and shoves in hard, coming in little bursts.

Alex laughs and steps back, tugging his jeans up and tucking himself back inside. “Sorry I can't kiss you,” he says. “Don't wanna get you sick.”

There's a pause, and then Kiké bends down, tucks his fingers under Cody's chin so Cody has to look up at him, meet his eyes. “I'll help,” Kiké says, and then he gets down and kisses him, their mouths moving together, sticky and salt-bitter with the taste of come. Cody gasps, then sinks into the kiss, feels his shoulders shake.

He feels someone else push into him and Kiké mutters, “Tony,” before kissing him again. Tony's rocking his hips, all slow, gentle thrusts.

“You should get yourself off,” Kiké says. “And then I'm gonna fuck you, okay?”

Kiké kisses him again, and Cody nods, leans into Kiké and gets a hand around himself. He's so hard now, and he'd almost forgotten about it, too overwhelmed to notice the steady insistent throb of his dick.

“Yeah, do it—” it's Tony, voice still harsher than the way he's fucking. Cody tries to match his thrusts, but his hand is dry. He licks his palm, and then Kiké takes his hand and sucks Cody's fingers into his mouth, gets them wet. When he reaches down again it's an easy slide.

Kiké is holding him up and kissing him and Tony's close, hands digging into his hips. He comes inside Cody, pulls out for the end of it so there's come coating his crack, slippery between his thighs, he's so, so sloppy with it.

“Come on,” Tony says. He reaches down and presses two fingers against Cody's hole, pushes some of the wetness there in.

Cody cries out, knees threatening to collapse underneath him. He gets jizz all over the carpet, he's sure of it, but he doesn't care.

“Good,” Kiké says, before kissing him once more. He lets go and Cody falls down onto his elbows. He’s already lax and wrung out, head fuzzy, and there's still more to go.

Kiké fucks into him them, harder than he thought it would be, and Cody stifles a gasp. Kiké pauses, pats his ass, but he says, “It’s okay, man,” and starts to move in and out, steady and uncompromising. Cody closes his eyes. Every time Kiké pushes in he feels sparks, hot and electric, dance up his spine. He’s oversensitive, and the sound of their fucking is wet and sloppy and so, so loud. There’s come between his thighs, sticky and warm. It’s just a lot, and he’s never tried this, getting fucked after he came, it’s always been one as the result of the other. He thinks he likes it. He doesn't know. Everything is caught in his chest and he tries to clench down around Kiké, who hisses and tells him to do it again.  

When he's close Kiké pushes him down, pins his shoulders to the floor and snaps his hips hard. Cody's ass is in the air and wants to squirm away and he wants to rock back and meet each thrust. He wants to collapse flat on the ground. He doesn't know. Kiké pulls out and finishes on Cody's ass, striping him with even more come.

Kiké pants for a minute, then leans down and kisses Cody's cheek. Cody tilts his head, unthinking, and Kiké laughs and kisses him on the lips.

He looks around the room. It's easier to do now that more of them have fucked him. Anyone could be next, though it’s Kemp who speaks up, sprawling on on the couch. “C’mere,” he says, patting his thighs. Cody knee-walks over.

He still doesn’t know Kemp well, wasn’t here for his first stint with the team, didn’t hang out with him much during spring training. He doesn’t know if Kemp wants him to crawl. There’s no elegant way to get onto the couch, and Cody ends up splayed across Kemp’s lap.

“Nah.” Kemp's grin has teeth. “Turn around.”

That means he'll be facing out. The entire team will be able to see him, streaked with come, teary, face a mess. It makes his stomach twist, low and not.

Cody does as Kemp says, reaches behind to grab Kemp's dick so he can lower himself down. And maybe it’s the change in position but god, he can feel every inch of it, the burn and stretch, even with how much he’s been fucked open.

“Yeah,” Kemp says. “Good. You got it.”

He can move, even though he’s tired, and Kemp helps him out, controls the pace with hands on either side of his hips. He’s meeting Cody on every thrust, fucking him like he’s desperate. It hasn’t been like that, with the rest of the guys, not even Kershaw with his angry pointed edges, but—Kemp didn’t lose with them last year, wants to stay in blue, doesn’t want to get traded away again. Maybe that’s the point of this. They’re all revealing a little too much, they’re all laying themselves bare for one other, giving themselves up for the team.

He scrapes his teeth over the back of Cody's shoulder and it stings, makes him gasp and pause, thighs trembling as he holds himself up on Kemp’s dick.

Stopping earns him a tap on the thigh, hard, and Cody nods in acknowledgement, starts to move again. Kemp’s making him work for it, dick give and throbbing inside him, and Cody makes sure his knees are firmly planted on the couch cushions before he really grinds down, summoning energy he didn’t know he had left.

Kemp bites him again when he comes, hard enough that there might be a bruise. Cody doesn’t know if he likes it or not. He climbs off instead, and Kemp grabs him by the waist, pulls him in to kiss him on the cheek and then the mouth, softer than he thought it would be.

He slithers down to the floor. “Fuck.”

“You okay?” someone asks, and Cody isn’t _not_ okay, but his thighs are shaking and his legs are like jelly. He goes with a thumbs-up. He thinks it’s unconvincing.

“Maybe put on his back for awhile,” Rich says. He went and splashed water on his face, Cody thinks, because his hair is wet and dropping. “We're tiring the kid out, here.”

They flip him over with careful hands. It's nice, not doing it himself. Someone grabs a pillow off the couch and slides it under his hips. Chris leans down and says, “Better?”

Cody nods. He's sore all over, already. Lying on his back on the floor won't change much. But it's a good, deep, used ache, for the most part. Ryu gets down on his knees, kisses his cheek, and then slides in, fucking him in long, smooth strokes. He comes over Cody's stomach, pats him on the shoulder when he's done. Austin's next, then Logan. When Logan kisses him, his beard scratches, makes Cody shudder. Joc asks him to sit up and jerks off onto his face, adding to the mess there, but he gives Cody warning, enough time to close his eyes, and kisses him on the forehead after. Cody gets back up onto his knees for Strips, sucks him off easy and quick. He swallows when Strips comes; he wonders if Strips was riled up watching everyone else fuck him. Puig wants a blowjob too, and it’s so easy, at this point, letting Puig fuck his mouth, taking him deep and gagging on it. Everything washes over him in waves.

Chris tells him to turn back onto his stomach, fucks between Cody's thighs. He slicked himself up but it might not have been necessary, the rest of the team easing the way. Cody rests his chin in the crook of his elbow and squeezes his legs together and listens to Chris moan in his ear, gasps when Chris mouths over the back of his neck before he comes.

There aren't many guys left now. Chase, and Corey, and Kershaw. Whatever else Kershaw wants to do to him to finish it off.

Corey's been watching quietly, his hands folded neatly in front of him, though Cody can see enough to tell he's half-hard in his sweats. Cody turns over onto his back so he can look at over at where Corey is standing next to Chase. He doesn’t know what Corey is waiting for, but if he wasn’t watching closely he would have missed Chase’s tiny nod, wouldn’t know what to expect next.

“Hey again,” Corey says, walking over to him, Chase close behind. Corey’s tone of voice is light, like they’re about to go grab a bite to eat, and Cody relaxes.

“Why don’t you stay on your back?” Chase says. “We won’t make you do too much more work.”

That sounds good to him. He musters another thumbs-up, which gets a smile from Corey, and some stifled laughter from the rest of the team. Corey gets down on his knees, pushes Cody’s legs apart with big, careful hands. He shimmies out of his sweatpants and leaves them on the floor.

“Go slow,” Chase says. He's leaning across Cody's body, has a light hand on Corey's hip. Cody's surrounded by the two of them, can smell the Old Spice deodorant Corey wears and Chase's aftershave and the astringent shower gel from the Giants’ locker room. “He's so sensitive—aren't you?”

Corey inches in. He's holding himself up with an arm, and Cody wonders if they're going to kiss over him, if they'll do that in front of the team. Even with all of this going on, he doesn't know. But Corey's dick is long like the rest of him is, and already Cody can feel it, hitting him in a different way than Rich or Ryu or Tony.

“You're not gonna come yet,” Chase says, his voice so low only the three of them can hear. “You got that?”

“Yes,” Corey says, shaky with everything he’s holding back. Cody looks up at him, sees how he’s biting his lower lip, teeth digging in.

“Good,” Chase says, and Corey starts to move, grinding into him so slow and purposeful and steady it makes Cody ache. Corey wraps their fingers together and Cody squeezes his hand, his head falling back, exposing his throat.

Chase reaches out, brushing calloused fingers over where Cody’s pulse is fluttering, hummingbird-fast. It’s the lightest touch, but he likes it, how it feels like well-earned approval.  Cody moans under Chase’s hand, straining up.

Clearly Corey gets it, because he smiles down at him, before looking at Chase. “Can I—”

“Yeah,” Chase says. “Pick up the pace.” He glances over to where Kershaw is sitting. “Not too much, though.”

So they’re not going to let him come again until the end, Cody guesses, but that’s alright. He likes being between the two of them like this, Corey pushing into him with his long dick, working his hips, Chase watching with dark, hot eyes.

Corey’s rhythm stutters, and he inhales sharply, looking over at Chase again. “Please,” he says.

“One more minute.” Chase’s voice is low. “One more minute and then I’ll tell you when.”

Corey slows down, and something about the angle makes Cody groan, hands grasping at nothing. Chase’s fingers press hard against his throat and then he says, “Do it,” and Corey comes, hot inside him, his head falling heavy between his shoulders. He says something, and it might be Chase's name, but it might be Cody's. He’s still watching Chase the entire time, and Cody wonders, again, if they’re going to kiss. If they’ll let themselves. Everything shrunk down to the three of them, and now it’s done. They’ve got an audience, they’ve got people waiting.

Chase jerks off on him, adding to the mess on Cody’s face, his hand quick and efficient on his dick. After he’s done he tilts his head at Corey, and they melt back into the group. It’s just Cody left, covered in jizz, propped up on his elbows on the rug in the middle of the room. And Kersh.

“C’mere,” Kersh tells him. He hasn’t moved all night from where he was slumped down in his chair. He finally stands up. Cody looks at him, and Kersh nods. He gets up and walks over, stifles a breath at the wetness sliding out of him, sticking on his thighs. He’s still half-hard. He wants to come again, he’s so ready for it, needs the release like he’s burning up. Then he’ll take a shower for hours and sleep as late as he can. He'll be so sore in the morning. There's a chance he'll have to lean up on the rail the entire game tomorrow.

He’ll deal with it.

“Just me left,” Kersh says. “Last one and then we're gonna win tomorrow. You hear me?”

“ _Yes,”_ Cody says, even though he knows it isn't aimed only at him. Kersh pulls him around so he’s leaning over the side of the couch,then stands up and presses the head of his dick to Cody's hole, holding himself back so it’s just the tip inside.

And then he slips right in. Cody's so open, so loose. The rest of the team did a good job.

Kersh smacks him on the ass, a loud ringing slap, and Cody gasps and tightens up around him.

“Oh, fuck,” Kersh says, and he does it again and again, the sound of his hand coming down loud in the suddenly quiet hotel room.

It isn't hard to imagine it's for every missed pitch, every earned run, every error and walk and mistake that cost them six games they should have won. Kersh is fucking him and hitting him and it stings, it feels good; god, it's totally overwhelming. He's hard again, dick hanging heavy between his legs, blood-hot. Kersh reaches down and strokes him a couple times, makes a pleased noise.

It's so _loud,_ the slap of skin on skin, and the room is dead silent, all the guys done with him except for one, all of them watching. Cody could handle it before but it's heavier now. They have a game to win tomorrow. They can't let each other down. They won’t.

He thinks Kersh is getting close, pushing into him fast and hard.

“Come like this,” Kersh says finally. “Come on my dick, in front of everyone.” He slides his hand around again, gives Cody a couple of rough strokes, and then smacks him on the ass twice more, until it stings.

Cody comes at that, embarrassingly, the orgasm crashing over him sharp and sweet, making his toes curl.

“Oh,” Kersh says, more of a sigh, and he wraps an arm around Cody’s shoulder, kisses the back of his neck and fucks in hard, dick pulsing when he comes.

When he pulls out Cody shudders. He can’t hold himself up anymore and he collapses onto the couch, face buried in the cushions. “You did good,” Kersh says, squeezing his shoulder. “Rookie of the year, huh?”

“Not a rookie anymore,” Cody protests, and Kersh laughs and steps away. 

It feels like everyone takes a breath, like a weight was lifted that they didn't even know was there.

They don't leave him alone, although most of the team starts to dissipate. Alex comes over with a washcloth and does what he can, cleaning half-dried come off Cody’s face. Yasmani brings him a cup of water. Cody drinks it, coughing when he tries to say ‘thanks’. His voice is going to be _fucked_ tomorrow, all scratchy and hoarse. He’ll have to find a way turn down any post-game interviews.

He gets dressed in borrowed clothes, someone finding clean sweats, and then Corey hauls him up to standing, linking their arms together. “You should shower in your hotel room,” he says. When he’s right, he’s right. Cody lets himself be walked down the hall, lets Corey turn on the hot water and manhandle him into the tub.

Showering erases a lot of the aches, albeit not all. He takes his time, scrubbing the jizz off his skin, washing his hair. The spot where Kemp bit him stings under the hot water.

When he’s done, Corey’s sitting on his bed and Chase is in the room, raises his eyebrows in greeting. Cody waves and drops his towel, fumbling for his pajamas. Who gives a fuck about modesty at this point. The bruises on his ass will be visible in the locker room tomorrow.

“You think it worked?” Corey asks, finally, voice low.

“I sure as fuck hope so,” Cody says. He messes with the drawstring of his pants. ‘It felt like—at the end. I could feel something. Like, a good vibe. Even if it didn't work like Alex thought, we have that.”

Chase says, “I guess that's alright,” and then he says, “You should go to bed.” He wraps his fingers around Corey’s wrist. Corey smiles up at him, then gets up.

“Night,” he says, and follows Chase out.

it takes some time to get comfortable—he’s so fucking sore, and so wrung out—but once he’s asleep, he sleeps well.

The next morning should be weird, but Cody goes down for breakfast, sits with Yasiel and Joc, shovels in a whole platter of eggs and bacon. They don’t talk about it, but he can read the overall mood—everyone seems noticeably lighter, laughing and joking through the meal.

Another night, another game against the Giants. It goes into extras again, 1-1 through the 10th, except: Kenley’s velocity ticks up, and Farmer’s pinch-hit double drives in the run, and they hold on. They win, two runs to one. They’re 3-6 but they win. They win the next game too, bats starting to come alive.

“Let’s go out and get ‘em,” Cody says, in the dugout after the game, and Alex holds his hand up for a high five. He’s lighter. They’re all lighter, more confident. The bats are warming up, the pitching is putting itself back together. Cody thinks the team will be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> so i started writing this and the dodgers briefly stopped losing to win a couple games! then they lost 16-6 to oakland. then they lost some more. they did win tonight, so: progress! 
> 
> kershaw did actually threaten to punch jansen over the pitching meeting being changed.


End file.
